Monday, December 6, 2010

Being the Adult

I had the title for this post picked out for a few days, relating specifically to President Obama, and how he needs to step up against the obstructionist Rethuglicans. (That is not a typo; stop calling my party the "Democrat", which ends with rat, party and maybe I'll stop calling you thugs.)

But then life got in the way.

I was really happy at work on Friday because, for the first time, I was allowed to work with an expensive piece of equipment usually only handled by someone senior than myself. And I did a fairly good job. But, not five minutes after completing my project, my mother called. And she needed money. And I said yes, because I was happy and she sounded desperate, like she always does every time she asks for it. I regretted the entire conversation as soon as I hung up the phone.

My mother owes me $2900. She used to owe me more, but there was a stretch where she'd send me $50 a month. Then it was every two months. This past year, she's given me $200. In her call, she asked for that amount, and then some.

I let the situation stew, getting more angry and frustrated as the night wore on. I called her the next morning with a few questions. Why didn't she just use a credit card for the bill? She only had one and it was almost maxed out by a termite bill. What about the emergency fund we had set up, back when I coached her on financial responsibility? She had spent it on "this and that." I said okay and hung up the phone.

I continued to seethe. The money was to pay for the heat bill. Her furnace broke and a pipe broke. Before calling me, asking me for money, she called asking to possibly stay in my apartment overnight. To this I of course said yes. I understood a lot was happening to her at once. But I also saw that she had not been saving like I told her she needed to do, every pay check. And, in twelve months, she had told me multiple times she planned to pay me back, but my last $50 from her came in July. Not only that, she said she would get the money from someone else, because she needed it as soon as possible, but would pay them back with my money and then just owe me.

The entire situation was so convoluted, I couldn't stand thinking about it anymore. I was done. I decided this was it; after this money she was never getting any more from me, at least not until she cleared her entire debt.

I called her back. I told her how angry and frustrated I felt every time she asked me for money, especially because she only gave me $200 this year. I cried as I spoke. She stopped me and just told me to forget about it, pretend like she never asked. She hung up.

But I can't pretend, because she did, and now I feel angry and frustrated and guilty, because yes I have the money, but why does she always do this? She's 58 years old with a steady job and no rent. Why can't she be responsible, save the money, be prepared for when shit hits the fan? Why do I have to carry an IOU from her for over three years?

I'm her daughter, but why do I always feel like the adult?

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Monday, briefly


I arranged to meet Mister Sean, a man I met in passing during camp, at a seafood restaurant near where he lives. I was in the mood for raw oysters.

After our meal and extensive conversation, in which he teased me mercilessly, we headed back to his home. I must say, I am so jealous of his domicile. It is a shinning example of how adults live: large living room, large television, excellent back yard with a covered back porch, and, the best part, a dungeon I didn't want to leave.

Once at his home, we breezed through photos of the party he and his partner, xoel, held the night before. I hope to make their next get together, whenever that may be. In the photos, I noticed one person in particular. I made a mental note to ask about him later.

Soon we stopped beating around the bush and started playing. He asked me to kneel down on the floor. He cuffed my hands and told me to undress and place my clothes on the chair in the corner. When I no longer could, due to the cuffs, he unlocked them and I finished. He watched as I did this. I took care to fold my clothes as best I could.

He put a ball gag on me, explaining his safeword system and what I should do in case something went wrong.

Once again in the kneeling position, this time my face on the floor, he moved a different chair over and had me sit in it. Securing my legs and arms with straps, he proceeded to put me in precarious circumstances. Securing clips to my vaginal lips, he then ran string from the clips, around my big toes, and back to the clips.

"You know what happens if you move your toes."

He then moved onto my nipples, which he also ran string through, this time looping around the back of the chair and hooking to my nostrils.

"You know what happens if you move your head."

But just as he was finishing adjusting the lines, a severe cramp raced through my right calf. He freed my leg and tried to massage it away, but not one minute back into place, the cramp crept to my thigh. That was it for the chair. He informed me I would pay for interrupting the scene later.

Back kneeling on the floor, new gag in because I kept pushing the previous one out with my teeth, he buckled manacles to my hands and clipped them above my head. He smacked my face and pulled a hood over it. That's when the stings began, sharp and painful. First he went after my breasts, traded back and forth which one he would hurt. Then he started hitting my thighs, my arms, then back to my breasts. I think he even got in a few shots on my feet and a few on my vag. In a final flourish, he just kept going back and forth on my breasts, to when I finally had to call out a slow down.

Removing the gag, I breathlessly moaned I just needed a minute.

Putting what had been a small metal object away, he pulled out a roll of cellophane and ripped off a small piece. He slowly walked over and placed the plastic over my face. It took only a moment before I started to squirm. He held me for a few seconds, then pulled away the cellophane so I could breath. He did this another half dozen times. Once, I had finally learned to push out all my breath and hold it, calm and still with his hand over my face. I, in fact, held it so long, he thought I was breathing. But just a few seconds after his statement, I wriggled to try to get away again.

Finished with the cellophane, he grabbed me by my wrist and drew my body against his, the first time he'd been so close since the scene had started. He turned my face to his and kissed me. He spanked me once, twice. Then he whispered in my ear, "I've been wanting to play with your ass." He scratched me up and down my back. His hand reached down to my clit and he felt how wet I was. "You are so wet. You're such a dirty little slut. When did I start making you wet, you dirty little slut? When? When? Answer me."

"When I first saw you outside the restaurant," I said.

The hood went back on and he told me, "Spread open your cunt." I heard the buzz of the Hitachi and tried to move my legs apart. I felt the vibrator between my legs, but he couldn't get to my clit. "I told you to spread open your cunt." I tried moving my legs apart. "Oh no, too late now." I felt him wrap manacles around my ankles and heard the click of the spreader bar. "Next time you'll spread your cunt open when I tell you to."

He once again went at my clit with the Hitachi. This time he found it easily. I leaned into the vibrator and could feel my body reacting.

"Don't you cum. No one comes in this dungeon without permission."

I began to squirm away. I tried to get away from the pleasure. I tried to hold back. I felt him push me back onto his large X/cross. With a belt around my torso and a belt around my hips, he held me place. He again used the Hitachi. I tried to squirm out; it was torturous holding back my body's reaction.

He turned the vibrator off and rested on the futon for a moment.

"Sir, my hands are turning numb."

"Don't call me Sir."

"I'm sorry, what should I call you?"

"What's my name?"

"Mister Sean. Sorry, Si...Mister Sean."

He released my hands from the manacles. Pins and needles set in. He let me stand and rest for a few minutes. He then unbelted me from the X and I knealt once again. After a moment, he led me to the swing. "Bet you can guess what we're going to do next." He eased my ankles into the hanging stirrups. He put on some rubber gloves and sat on a stool in front of my very open vagina. He handed me the Hitachi.

"Use your toy if you want to."

He slipped his fingers in. He worked in slowly. He used more fingers. He went deeper. I had already started to moan loudly. I finally started to use te vibrator.

"You can cum."

I came, long and hard. I cried. He stopped when he saw. I explained it was a good thing. He did it again. I continued to cry. He kept going til I could take no more. He got his entire fist in.

Afterwards, he gave me a bottle of water to sip. He said that was enough for our first playdate. He helped me out of the swing. He wrapped me in a soft comforter and sat me on the futon. Xoel, his partner, came home.

We all chatted. I asked about the man in the photos, Mr Black Beard. I was disappointed when didn't come over. I decided I would say hi later.

Mister Sean was tired. Xoel was hungry. He went to bed. We got sushi. She covered for me. I listened to her stories. I liked her facial expressions. The food was delicious. We walked back to the house. I hugged her bye.

So much for "briefly".

Friday, October 15, 2010


Being in my late twenties, my mother has come to view me more like a friend.  Or, at least, she speaks to me that way.  Unfortunately, or hilariously, depending on the situation, this leads to interesting conversations.

Today we had one that made me nauseous.

In brief: my mother almost married my elementary school principle, and we almost moved to Kentucky. 

Correct me if I'm wrong, but this sounds like the plot of a chessy comedy. 

At the time, I was five or six years old, so I have no recollection of any of the examples she gave: the three of us out to dinner; the Easter weekend she went to Kentucky to meet his family; the new wardrobe he bought her.

I don't think it's disgusting because of his age.  Already having a father 22 years older than my mother would have transitioned me nicely to having a step-father 33 years older than my mother.  And school wouldn't have been an issue, seeing as he planned to move us out of state, and, I assume, me into a school he wasn't running.

No, the disgust was because it was my principle, my hairy, old, mean, crotchety principle.  According to my mother, he was a perfect gentleman.  "I'll never do anything so I couldn't look your father in the eye," my mother quoted him.  (Oh God, I think he was probably my grandfather's age.)  In my youth, he, along with all my other teachers, doted on me.  But the idea of coming home everyday to this man in my house, this man being my father, and my mother and him, dare I even type it, having sex...

I just gagged a little.

As if I don't already have a wealth of family drama to write about, this would have been a whole book. 

But, it didn't happen.  On my Mom's trip to Kentucky, his family rejected her.  They thought she was too young, being the same age as his children.  His previous wife had passed away, and, I suppose, they didn't want him replacing her.  He wanted to keep his family happy, even though it seems he cared for my Mom.  She avoided him at my school, which I attended for another six years.  He was nice to me; I got good grades and was never a discipline problem. 

I suppose, in all this, along with my dry heaves, I feel very sad for my Mom.  Her life could have been so different, so much better.  I know my Mom could have used his loving support, seeing as her relationship with my father most likely wasn't healthy.  And my principle had money, so I doubt she would've worried about bills ever again. 

The only reason she brought it up at all is because he died this past summer; she didn't learn about it til last week.  Time drew our lives apart from his.  And, even though we tried to keep in touch with my elementary school, a small family of people we knew and loved for so many years, time has a way of distancing all things.

She'll want to visit the school sometime soon.  I hope it will be good for her.  Me, I'll go because she wants to.  But I have a feeling they won't know how to react to one of their star pupils showing up with a rocker style haircut, tattoos, and a tongue ring. 

Boy, how kids grow up so fast these day.

Thursday, October 14, 2010


To me it seems obvious, as if a part of breathing, a fact so important to me I cannot live a life without it.  And yet, I am in the minority.

In a world with six billion people, all with different lives and experiences, personalities and bodies to explore, I can never be in a closed relationship again.  I came to my realization that sex does not in fact equal love when, low and behold, I was attracted to and wanted to fuck a coworker, but had no desire to have any other interaction with this person after the act.  In fact, I was in a relationship, and did not believe having sex with my non-partner would have negatively affected our relationship.  Only the contrary actually, I think it would have lifted my mood and given me new ideas to play with my partnered lover in the bedroom.

I never had sex with the coworker and have since separated from the Ex, but I am left with the knowledge of my need for sex, in fact lots of it, and my desire to have it with many people.  I know of functioning, healthy, open relationships, and I strive to find a partner with which to share my life. 

But I am not delusional enough to believe my need for an open relationship will be easily accepted by the average individual.  There are some who, by nature or nurture, believe the lifestyle I live is just wrong.  Others have jealousy issues, a trait that would incline me to not be with them anyway.  So I know it will be difficult to find someone.

Often, though, I am frustrated and annoyed when I see an attractive person and realize I have no chance with them because they are "in a relationship."  I think relationships, partnerships, etcetera are all good, but why are you shutting yourself off from possibly amazing sex with others?  Why would you deny yourself transformative sexual experiences that would do nothing to ruin, defame, mare, or hurt your life at home?

It seems so simple to me: use protection and don't bring drama home.  And yet, there are so many people in this world closing themselves off from beautiful, wondrous experiences, unknown sensations, tastes and memories that would only enhance their lives. 

I am just befuddled with this.  I know this has to do with my openness to life, my lack of religious handcuffing, and, my relatively free spirit.  However, it doesn't make the situation, for me, any less angering, annoying, frustrating, or just down right sad.

A Little Project I've Started

Some of those in the know are keen on my fiber arts skills.  Often they've suggested I join Etsy and start a little shop.  But, for me, that didn't seem the best route.  So, instead, I've gone in another direction.

Poetic Is Crafty

Like my first post says, this will be a place for me to show off my fiber arts skills, start discussions, seek and give tip & tricks, and generally have fun with yarn.  I will accept requests, but that's not my aim.  I love making things; now I have a place to show off and converse with other needlers/hookers. 

Stop by and say hi.


Thursday, October 7, 2010

An Update

My few but loyal followers, I do apologize for my long absence. Life, and my lack of Internet, have gotten in the way of blogging. Even now, I'm writing this on my iPhone, my current consistent source for the web. Unfortunately, this is how I will have to blog again.

So much has happened these past few months. A brief synopsis:

- I'm living alone, truly alone, for the first time in my life. The benefits outweigh the suckage.

- I went to sex camp this past September and now feel like I have opened up again. I didn't realize how much I had shut down my sex drive and inhibited myself to my thoughts and desires. I have come to fully accept all my wants and needs, no matter the place or time. The fun/torturous part is trying to not bounce off the walls because of my increased libido; all I want to do is play.

- I work so much more now, just so I can make enough money to go to other events. I'm just a horny little slut and am loving every minute of it.

- I've seen the Ex since the breakup. I think he's having trouble dealing with his emotions. It's almost as if he's a petulant child who can't deal with not getting his way. And, unfortunately, I'm not the only one who's noticed.

- I joined a dodgeball league in an effort to spend time with my friends, have some fun, and get in a workout.

- Also, I've been riding my bike to work, when I can. Since I moved into the apartment, I've lost fifteen pounds. Amazing what healthier eating and a little exercise can do.

So there, I've brought you up to date on my life. And I hope to get back to my blogging ways.


Wednesday, July 21, 2010


I can remember when I first learned the term "passing."  It was during a history class in middle school.  I was in the seventh grade and a cute male teacher was talking about African American history during slavery.  He mentioned how there were slaves who worked in the home, often the children of the master, and of a lighter complexion.  And then there were slaves who passed. 

Passing, he explained, was when a mixed race individual portrayed herself as white.  He pointed to himself and then he pointed to me, noting our lighter color could have allowed us this act, were we of that time.  Ever since that lecture, it has occurred to me how different I look from a great many of my cultural and ethnic peers. 

This fact was made even more evident during a trip to the doctor's office.  Recently I went in for my yearly checkup at my GYN.  The doctor pairs with a nurse practitioner who I see most times.  She is a sweet woman: white, attractive, married with kids.  And until my last visit, I really liked her.  But then she opened her mouth and my ease in her care went away.

I mentioned how I broke up with my boyfriend.  I explained the situation, which I've been doing a lot lately.  She then went on to talk about how she believed the "black culture" does not favor marriage, fidelity, or emotionally open black men.  I sat there, nodding my head, wanting to not have to lecture yet another person about "black culture", while also realizing, for the first time, she didn't know I was black.  She finally did ask what my racial background was, and I explained I was a mix of Irish, Cherokee, and African American.  She said she could absolutely see the Cherokee in me, especially with the example of her half black husband, who is also part Cherokee.

I suppose it was the fact she was married to a black man that she felt she could have this conversation with me and not view it as racist.  I believe she herself is not racist.  I've never had a bad experience with her, up until that visit.  But what she said angered me.  However, when someone is about to stick both metal objects and their hand into your "special area", you don't tend to want to contradict them. 

Instead, I spoke about how he had previous family issues that I believe led to his actions.  And though my encounter with him was not completely positive, I still held out hope for finding a life mate.  I didn't mention the fact that I knew plenty of African Americans, married, in stable family households.  Nor did I explain that though there is evidence of a culture of machismo in rap & hip hop music, this is merely a stereotype artists use to sell records and does not speak for the ocean of diversity that is "black culture."  Also, movies and television tend to portray a stereotype that is quite incongruous with my family and friends, and which I often find offensive.  But, like I said, she was about to do things to me only a handful of people in this world ever have, so I kept my mouth shut.

But here begs the larger questions: Would she have said the things she did if my complexion were closer to my father?  Would she have talked about the "black culture" like she did if my hair wasn't so straight or my skin so light or my vernacular and speech so proper?  In essence, was it my unintentional passing that incited her words or would she have said the same things if I were darker and less eloquent?  I don't know, but this experience just left me feeling deflated, as often happens when people mistake me for Latina or Phillippina or Hindi or just straight up ask me, "What are you?".

Sometimes I just want to sit out in the sun for a few days, chocolate up my skin, and move on.  But why should I change (and risk skin disease) just because people dump their racial baggage on me because of their preconceived notions? 

So you know what, fuck 'em.  Let people keep telling me shit they really shouldn't.  And I'll keep writing shit about them, anonymous or not. 

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Eight Days

He came home, because he forgot his lunch, and started fucking talking.

Seriously?  He was still on the clock at work, and I was just trying to hold it all together.

In about fifteen minutes, I'm leaving to have lunch with my father.  It's a little early (as in date wise), but it's for my birthday, which my ex still couldn't remember correctly.

He keeps saying he's hurt.  He keeps saying he doesn't understand.  I kept telling him it's over; he is not the man I hoped he would be. 
I told him how each time he said "I appreciate you" instead of "I love you", it hurt.  I told him because he didn't give me daily emotional recognition and reassurance, I often felt less than "appreciated".

I told him, because of his financial issues, I felt like the adult in the relationship.  He disagreed, but of course gave no explanation to back up his view.

I know July 15th is only eight days away, but it feels like forever.

And all this, from just before Memorial Day til just after my birthday.  Talk about a shitty start to the summer.

Monday, July 5, 2010

Ten Days

Every time I walk into my apartment, I hope for two things: 1) my ex and his mother will no longer be here or 2) if they are present, he's in the computer room and she's in his room.

The thing I hate the most about my current situation is my lack of isolation.  Often, when I come home, all I want is to be alone.  I miss being able to sit on my couch, watch my stupid recorded television shows, and not be disturbed, especially by people I don't want to be around.

I walked into the apartment about five minutes ago and once again the both of them were sitting on my couch, watching my TV, and the rage washed over me again.  And, like clockwork, I grabbed something (this time the computer) and rushed to the master bedroom.

This feels like long, slow torture.  And every time I walk through my front door, I debate whether or not I should just stay away.  I've had offers from friends and family for me crash with them until the 15th, the first day of my new lease.  But I always decline, because he may have moved her in, but he won't push me out.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Gasland: America's Inconvient Natural Gas Truth

I know it's been almost a month since I last posted, but this topic is so important I let go of my petty little life problems and sat down to write about it.  If you are subscribed to HBO, record and watch Gasland.  If you're not, find a friend who is.  This is a story every American needs to know and, having learned the truth about another dirty little secret from the previous administration, everyone needs to work to stop the increase of natural gas production.

Like most, I believed the hype.  I saw T. Boone Pickens on TV advocating for natural gas as a way to bridge our country's transition to clean renewable energy.  I thought, "Maybe this man isn't as crazy as he sounds?"  Of course, then I learned how much money he was making from natural gas and I became suspicious.  Tonight, I watched the documentary Gasland on HBO.  My suspicions were confirmed still further, with horror and fear to top it all off.

I'm sure everyone has heard about people who can light their water on fire.  Personally, I thought it was an urban legend or just some dumb joke.  Instead it is a waking nightmare for thousands of people in the Midwest and Middle South, from New Mexico to Colorado, Utah, Texas, Arkansas, and yes Louisiana.  Contaminated drinking water, not fit for anything living to drink, pours into these people's homes through their faucets.  When you watch the documentary, you'll see many people light their water on fire.  And by many, I mean just about every person the director/writer interviews.

There are jars of murky water.  There are dead animals who drank the contaminated creek or river water.  There are chemical emissions hundreds of times above heath standards.  And there are companies (and yes Halliburton is one of them; they even have a loophole named after them) who are involved, but they constantly deny all of it: the problems faced by the victims, the toxic chemicals they refuse to disclose, the harm it is all causing.

Watching this movie was like watching An Inconvenient Truth, but going 100mph.  Neurological problems, cancer, loss of hair, deaths.  It's all happening right now.  And the public at large just doesn't know.

This is the type of movie that makes you want to scream, to hit someone or something, and then ride your bike to work.  If you watch this movie, you will not want to use any natural gas.  I say this as a person who is about to move into an apartment where my heat is created through natural gas (and yes, it gets very cold in the winter where I live).  I say this as a young America who wants her future children to have clean air and clean drinking water.  And I say this as a person who votes.

Watch this movie.  It is yet more you need to know and more you need to work towards fixing.

At the end of this movie, I remarked how I would love to see wind turbines on the sides of highways, out in the ocean in the horizon, in back yards, in fields, anywhere you could fit them.  The same holds true for solar panels.

I can't remember what I was watching, but a gentleman remarked you could almost create universal clean energy just by paying every household $7000 to put solar panels on their roof.  This also included apartment buildings and the like.  And he said how absurd this was because it cost too much to implement.  But what he didn't ponder is the cost we are already paying because we have not converted to a clean energy society.

If anything, I believe everyone in the Gulf region would argue for a better way to find energy than what we are doing now.

I suppose this is all to say: I'm willing to pay to have clean air and clean water for myself and my future family.  And I believe others are willing to, as well.  Because I don't want to pay for my lifestyle the way our country currently is.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

In Memoriam

In the suburbs outside where I grew up, there is cemetery that acts as the final resting place for the black middle and upper class.  Surrounded by expensive homes and a few acres of corn, it is an odd sight to come upon. 

Every Memorial Day, this home for the dead has a homecoming of sorts.  Hundreds of people come to place flowers at the sight of their loved ones.  This year, I also took part in this ritual.

Driving to the cemetery, you would hardly know a city was close behind you.  Take a turn, pass a few apartment buildings, and drive for ten minutes.  Gradually, houses get bigger.  The land surrounding each expands.  One car garages become two.  Carports become driveways become private roads.  Pools sink into the ground.  Tennis courts rise.  You know this is not where you were before.  Foliage covers the road, obscuring the brilliant sunlight that would otherwise pour through.  It feels as if you are privy to some secret hideaway, some better place to live.  How ironic that it takes death for these black folks to, "move on up."

Turning into the cemetery, you are immediately greeted by a volunteer in a yellow shirt.  You roll down your window and they ask, "Do you know where you are going?"  I knew.  I remembered the way: down the hill, past the large floral sign, around the curve with famous black folks graves marked in bronze & marble, up the hill with the mausoleum to the left, go about a quarter of the ways down the hill on the right.  I remembered the way we took, carrying Ella's body in tow.  I remembered the line of parked cars, the men in dress shirts who I'd never met before, walking across the grass, sitting in the folding chairs on the earth, never actually finding stillness. 

As I drove towards where she lay, the sheer enormity of people was daunting.  Cars lined the sides, down and up and down the hills.  I made my way, but was stopped not twenty feet from where I needed to park.  There was a jam.  Over a dozen cars, including mine, needed to back out.  I became frustrated, annoyed, and contemplating leaving.  I was already having a bad day (I'll talk about that in another post).  But I didn't leave, not yet.  I waited for a moment, watching the people walk by.  A woman carried a small child passed out on her arm.  Life & death are so preciously close.  A man walked on crutches, his right leg gone.  Death ever present; who knows when the end will come.

I turned around and parked my car down yet another hill.  I walked towards the plots.  I found my family.  Aunties & Uncles in the same grave; Ella just below them.  I brushed off their markers.  I didn't know what to say.  In situations like these, I always feel awkward.  Am I suppose to cry?  Am I suppose to say something?  What am I suppose to do?  I half expected an altercation to ensue; I had anticipated other family members being there.  But it was just me, alone, with the crowds of people seeing their loved ones.  I told Ella I missed her.  I saw the small damage done to Aunties & Uncles marker.  I went over to one of the volunteers.  He put in a work order for the fix, which apparently was common.  I left.

When I got back to my car, I pulled out the rose my ex gave me when Ella died.  I had carried it in my car since that day, two years ago.  I put it in some tall grass and took a picture for posterity (they only allow fresh flowers on the graves).  I was okay.

I don't know if I'll go back next year.  But I don't think it really matters if I do.  Family is in your heart, not in a hole in the ground.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Options, Options

The way I see it, I only have a few options as to what I'm going to do come July 31st (the last day of the lease with the boyfriend).

1) Stay in the same apartment, but get a roommate.  This way, I will be paying about the same amount I am right now.  The obvious downsides include the price of gas for motoring into the DC metro area and I would have to deal with another person in my personal space, one with whom I don't know so well.

2) Move into the one apartment complex I got the best vibe from on Wednesday.  It is much closer to a few of the places I work than where I live right now, thereby cutting down on my gas bill.  However, it is not so close that I could bike to said places.  Plus, I would be going it alone, so my rent would be $1100.  And the only 1BR they have available for my move in time is on the fourth floor, no elevator.

3) Move into the complex closest to a few of the places I work.  The rent would be comparable to #2, $1055.  However, I could bike to work quite often, along with convient acess to the metro system.  The downsides include less space in the actual apartment (though that is true of all the places near work) and its possible sketchy nature.  Now this is only going off of Google reputation.  I will be rolling through the area tomorrow night to get a better idea of the neighbors. 

Another upside: this is probably where the ex will be living.  It is close enough that he can walk to work and have access to multiple public transportation options so he can easily go to visit family.  I like the idea of having someone in the neighborhood, so to speak, that I could call if I had any problems.  But this also leads to the situation of letting go and having lives separate from one another.  I think the differing apartments would do that just fine, but am I being too optimistic again?

So those are the options as I see them.  I will tell you right now I am leaning towards number three, if for no other reason than the cost savings in gas and the exercise potential.


A Healthy Dose of Duh

I don't know if it's irony or poetic justice that my ex has nixed the idea of us roommating again.  I brought up where I wanted to live and he mentioned how his bus ride would be over 1 1/2hrs.  (I did not bring up how I drive that amount for him now.)  He also used the one tool that would grab my attention: his mother.

She is still having financial troubles.  She hasn't gotten another job yet.  She's hoping unemployment will help brunt the pain.  His mother is roughly the same age as mine, but for some reason she seems to be elderly.  She's only 59, but she walks like she's 69.  Unfortunately, she won't qualify for Social Security for another six years.  Bridging the gap between now and then will require assistance, most likely from my ex.

His mother doesn't want to move out of Washington, DC.  She gets health care through the government there and fears she will loose coverage if she moves.  My ex refuses to live in the district again.  I do not want to be caught up in that mess again.

My roommate agreement idea does not cover all the drama that is bound to fall upon my ex's life in the next six years.  I can see myself still being a good friend to him, and most likely a neighbor, but I can't be caught up in that mess.  And he knows that, which is why we can't live together.

So now I'm faced with high rent in a slightly seedy place, but at least it'll be close to work.  I'll save on gas, be able to ride my bike (i.e. more exercise), and hopefully be okay with just being me, alone.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010


To rush everyone up to speed:

1- On Sunday I had "the talk" with the boyfriend.  Parts were okay.  Parts were bad.  It ended so-so.

2- That same day a mutual friend stopped by and helped to break the tension in the room.  Since then, we have been friendly.

3- I decided to move closer to work because my gas bill each month is horrendous and my car has accumulated more miles than one should each year. 

4- The ex suggested, playfully, we should get another apartment together.  I was apprehensive by his even mentioning this, but have been considering it.

Now, my thoughts.

I went apartment shopping today.  And, frankly, I don't know what I'm going to do.  Though the price range is roughly the same, all of the apartments closer to work are MUCH smaller than where we currently live, even the two bedrooms.  I only got a good vibe from one of the complexes.  Two of them I'd only consider because of their proximity to work and the fact that there are bombs to kill roaches.

My Dilemma: even though I was apprehensive at first, I am seriously considering moving into another two bedroom apartment with the ex just for the cost savings.  If I get a 1BR, it's $1100 (not including gas & electric).  If we share a 2BR, it's $1320 (the same we are currently paying).  We each would have our own bathroom, including shower (though the master would not have a tub).  There would be so much more room and, because it is closer to our jobs, I wouldn't have to drive him anywhere anymore.  We would have two separate lives, only interacting when we chose to.  We would set up a roommate agreement beforehand, governing our actions in possibly uncomfortable situations.  Best of all, we could still be friends and still be a part of each others' lives, but with our so drastically different schedules, only see each other rarely.

Downside: we would still be exes.  There are the obvious issues of 1) false hope from one party about the possibility of getting back together (him), 2) when one or both of us moves on, having to deal with seeing the ex with another, not to mention the whole coitus noise issue, and 3) it would be very easy to slip back into bad habits and not allow ourselves the freedom to be all that we can be without the other.

Having said all that, I think knowing up front the problems we would face, setting down in a roommate agreement the plan of action for issues, being honest with each other about feelings (while also being aware of why we can't go back there), and allowing the other to lead a life separate from the friend would be good for us.  I think having a roommate who pays on time & in full, and doesn't inspire responses from the cops, would be a boon to both of us, not to mention the cost savings involved ($440!  That's a CAR PAYMENT!).

I know I am naive to even be considering this, but after inspecting my possible new dwellings, I have to at least think about it.  It is the choice of paying A LOT in rent or rolling the dice on a sketchy place vs. dealing with the ex, a person who I view as a friend.  After Sunday, things have been okay between us.  No more harsh words, just truths from both of us.  I explained, even if I wanted to, how I couldn't reconcile with him because he is not the man I want to be my life partner for the most basic reasons (marriage, finances, children, family).  And a major part of the roommate agreement would govern his actions should his mother come upon dire straights again (one week limit of her stay, cannot stay more than twice in a year).  I've thought this through, analyzed the possibilities, and am willing to live with any unsavory consequences for the cost savings.

Now, of course, I am assuming the ex will even want to do this.  After explaining my reasoning behind never wanting to reconcile, he seemed quite dejected.  And if he doesn't I will just have to bite the bullet and pay the $1100/month.  But if he is okay with it, if he can live with it, so can I.  And, if nothing else, it will make great fodder for a rom/com television script.

PS. And did I mention the 1BR is on the 4th floor, but the 2BR is on the 1st!?!  Images of me lugging my bike up three flights of stairs is not appealing, though still a possibility.

PPS. I know your comments are coming.  I know you will be honest, but please try not to be harsh.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

It Would Be So Easy

It would be so easy to just let it go.  I could pretend I was okay with the situation, that I believed everything would be fine, that our lives would be back to normal in less than six months.

It would be so easy to forgive and try to forget, just ignore the glaring mistake made, and focus on the things "that matter."

It would be so easy to just pussy out, not say what I'm really feeling, what I really want to do.  Just go with the flow, like a leaf on a branch, ignoring the disease eating away at the roots.

I've done it before, twice in fact, once in love and once at work.  Both situations ended, not of my doing, but by the intervention of others.  Yes, I was happy for the ultimate resolutions, but heart broken in the aftermath.

I always seem to take the easy way, letting my life glide along, instead of taking control of the reigns.

It would be so easy to stay.  It will be so hard to go.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Drama On My Couch

I am currently living in a situation no one hopes to find themselves: my boyfriend's mother is staying in our apartment & I am none too happy about it.

One might ask: How could this happen?  I'll tell you.

Lately my boyfriend had, here and there, spoken off handily about the stress in his life, more specifically the troubles his mother had been facing.  A few weeks ago, she was reprimanded by her job, according to her "out of nowhere," and made to transfer, which was doubly impactful because her job doubled as her residence.  He scrambled to move her, but shortly there after, she was fired. 

To be perfectly honest, beyond the impact it had on my boyfriend, I didn't care.  I didn't know this woman, beyond seeing her a handful of times and not saying more than a few sentences to her in the process.  Our initial encounter occurred one afternoon when my boyfriend dropped by to give her a pack of cigarettes, a few sodas, and the twenty dollars she asked to borrow.  That first impression of her needing money never sat right with me. 

About a week ago, my boyfriend asked me a question.  "Worst case scenario, would you be okay with my mother living with us."  About a split second after he asked, I said no.  Then I apologized for my snap to judgment.  In my head, I started justifying why I should be okay with the scenario, i.e. the Christian values pounded into my mind since birth wouldn't let me be honest.  I then said I would be okay with it, but only if we sat down beforehand and created guidelines, and only if we set a definite amount of time for her stay.  Maybe a few weeks.  And then I said a few months.  Then I said up to six months, but again noting we would have to talk about her getting a job and finding a way to get around without my car or fitting into our schedule.  I think it was pretty obvious I was freaking out, because he stopped me during my train of thought to say, "Remember how I started the question, worst case scenario."  Well she was sitting on my couch when I came in from work earlier, so I think my freak out was spot on.

Sunday, I had a gig, so I let him borrow the car.  I called him when I finished for the day.  He said he was on his way and oh, by the way, he needed to go see his mother.  I didn't think much of this.  He drove us there, and I sat in the car and waited, not knowing what was about to happen.  His brother came up to the car and said hi.  His mother sat on the front step of a house and yelled an apology "for all the drama."  I told her no problem, thinking my being there in the car was the only inconvenience of which she spoke.

Then my boyfriend opened the trunk of my car and put a few things in.  Then he ushered her to my car.  I gave up my front seat for her to sit, trying to be polite, thinking we were dropping her off somewhere, possibly where his brother was staying.  The brother then left, catching a ride with a friend.  It was just the three of us in the car and I had a sinking feeling of what was to come.

My boyfriend started driving, stopping momentarily at a 7-11 to pick up a drink.  It then dawned on me what was going on.  I got very angry, but I put in my ear buds and listened to the radio to calm down.  My eyes began to water, so I bit the inside of my lip.  Once he pulled up to the front of our building, I told him to not park.  I needed to "run an errand."  I ran inside, grabbing all the cash I had stashed away and the one check I had yet to deposit.  I moved some of my important papers out of public view.  Meanwhile, he helped her out of the car.  I ran back out and jumped into the driver's seat.  He took her things from out of the trunk.  They walked inside.  I started heaving, trying to find air.  I managed to drive a few blocks away and parked.  I was having a panic attack.

I tried calling my mother; she didn't answer.  I tried calling my best friend; she didn't answer.  I tried my mother again; no answer.  I called my best friend's mother, a woman who has known me since high school and who I leaned on during a tumultuous time after college.  She answered.

I told her I tried calling my mother and her daughter, but neither picked up, so she was third on my list.  She informed me her daughter was with her.  She got my best friend on the phone.  I broke down.  I explained the situation to her through sobs and tears.  I told her how I was feeling, how angry I was.  And she agreed.  By not telling me what was going on, by assuming I would just be fine with it, by not having the conversation I wanted and needed before this happened, he had broken all the trust we had built up in the 3 1/2 years of our relationship.  I felt violated, used, taken advantage of.  It all felt wrong.

My best friend could see no resolution to the problem.  She saw no way we could get passed this without some harsh words first.  I knew this, but felt even more may be necessary for my calm to be restored.

I turned around.  I called him.  He came out to talk.  I told him I was uncomfortable with what he did.  I told him how I felt.  I got emotional.  He got defensive.  He said he kept hearing I's and me's.  I told him I wasn't being selfish; it was my apartment, too.  I asked when he knew she no longer had a place to stay.  He said a few minutes before I called.  Then I yelled how he should have told me what was going on when I called, or when he arrived to pick me up, or in the car ride to her place.  He should have told me, not assume I would be okay it.  I wanted the conversation he never gave.

I asked what would happen if she didn't have him as a son.  He said she would probably be homeless.  I asked how long she was staying.  He threw my own words back at me.  "Less than six months."  I said I was no longer comfortable with that time period.  I said she could stay the night.  And then he walked away, like he always does.  I shouted after, but he didn't turn back.  I'm glad no neighbors called the cops.

Still angry, I got a phone call.  It was my mother.  I told her the situation.  She tried to console me.  But, in true my-mother fashion, she played devil's advocate for him.  His siblings aren't helping.  If not for him, she would be homeless.  It's only temporary.  Don't let this break you up.  As if foreshadowing the end, she said this exact same thing when I mentioned the conversation to her the week before, just a day or two after he'd asked.  Then she offered for me to stay with her that night or for however long I needed.

Calmed down, I walked inside.  He was still angry, seemingly folding and throwing clothes at the same time.  I tried to explain I was accepting the fact she was staying.  He went into a low tirade about how he only has a few people he cares about and he walks away because he doesn't want to say or do anything he will regret.  He said I chose what I wanted to hear.  He said he could only deal with one issue at a time. 

I said I understood that, but he still should have told me what was going on before we picked her up, before she was in my home.  We paused.  I said I really did need to run an errand and might possibly go see my mother.  I said I would be back in time to drop them off in the morning.

I got in my car and called my friend again.  I explained what had happened.  She completely disagreed with my mother.  I was too tired to fight him anymore, though.  I did know, however, that this could break us up.  And now, less than two days out, the possibility looms.

After our talk, I drove to the ATM and deposited all the money.  Then I swung by the liquor store and bought a six pack.  If I was going to be able to sleep, or just get through the rest of the night without crying, I knew I needed to not be sober.

I got back, opened a beer, and sat on the couch.  His mother was getting ready for bed.  He said he needed to speak with me.  We walked out onto the patio.

He apologized if he wasn't as communicative as he could have been.  He apologized for the situation.  It made me feel slightly better, and for a moment I thought I might be able to find a way back to him, but only for that moment.  I asked him what I should call her.  He said we should have a house meeting.  I grabbed another beer.

He called her out.  He told her my question.  She said her name was Marilyn but most of my boyfriends' friends just called her Mom.  That was when I stopped wanting to be nice.  I got angry.  I wanted to tell her, 'I have a Mom.  She owns her home, has had the same job since before my birth, and just recently bought a new car.  So no, I wouldn't be calling her Mom.'  I wanted to slap her.  But I didn't.  I stood and fidgeted. 

We settled on her first name and she went back into his room.  I sat on the couch and started watching Sunday night cartoons.  Later he bought some McDonald's and we all sat and ate together.  I went to bed.

Monday I dropped them off at a bus stop near his job and went off to work.  When I picked them up that afternoon, I'm not ashamed to say I was disappointed when she was still with him.  They slept in the car as I drove home. 

I dropped them off at our building and ran another errand: picked up some yarn.  I sat in the parking lot and talked with my best friend for twenty minutes.  I told her what had happened and the inevitable: I was thinking about ending it.  She understood and thought it was justified.  I caveat-ed, saying I didn't know if I would feel the same way in a week.  I talked about the obvious way to do it: our lease ends July 31st.  I could not re-sign with him, and that would be that.  She said, no matter what, she would stand by me.  And then we talked about her daughter.  That made me smile for the first time in what seemed like ages.

So now it's Tuesday.  I stopped by the leasing office to get a few questions answered.  I'm keeping my options open, but my boyfriend wants to talk tonight.  I'm trying to not say anything that will end us.  I'm trying to fly under the radar for a little bit.  I'm trying just to be. 

But, when you can't look your boyfriend in the eye, and you don't want him to touch you, and you've almost broke down crying at work two days in a row, there is a problem.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Blowing Into The Wind

At times, I feel like a little old lady.  I DVR & watch CBS Sunday Morning and 60 Minutes, wanting to stay informed, but also realizing there are so many people in my generation who either don't have a DVR to record and watch these two shows or who just don't care.  But I do it anyway as one of the multitude of ways I gather information for my general knowledge.

And I'm glad I do because often I'm surprised by just how much I can learn on any given show.  In fact, only fifteen minutes ago, I barely knew anything about "the Narrative," but 60 Minutes is an awfully good show. 

Since I barely knew anything, I'm guessing others may be in the same boat, or I may be the last one among my circle of internet influence to come into this knowledge.  Either way, I'm going to talk about it a little.

"The Narrative" is what Muslims, often well off and highly educated individuals, are told about the United States and, by extension, "the West", to convert them to radicalized views.  They are told we invaded Iraq because it is a country of Muslims and we attacked ourselves on 9-11 as a reason to invade Afghanistan.  (Yup, they are Truthers.)  They're told the CIA secretly setup Al Qaeda (which with Charlie Wilson's war is an easy lie to pass).   They're told the West wants to destroy the Islamic faith by attacking countries to do so, and the only way to stop the US is to attack them on all fronts possible.

As you might expect, I was taken aback by this.  I knew some of this already, the trying to destroy Islam through wars part, but I had no idea of the extent of the mania.  It reminded me of the mental manipulation cult followers or domestic terror organizations (Waco, KKK, Weathermen, etc.) use to convert their members.  And then it dawned on me: Al Qaeda is a religious and extremist cult, gone international.  It is the KKK, but more effective.  And, just like with the KKK, the best way to counter their actions is through our own actions and the truth. 

In the 60 Minutes piece, a gentleman named Maajid Nawaz was profiled.  Nawaz is British and was once a member of the Party of Liberation, a group with members from Indonesia to London that doesn't advocate terrorism, but is deeply anti-Western and committed to spreading the Narrative. 

Nawaz joined the Party of Liberation in college and recruited others to "fight against the West."  It wasn't until he was arrested in Egypt and sentenced to prison time that he was converted the assassins of Anwar Sadat and the leaders of the Muslim brotherhood.  In the twenty years since they were locked up, these men had abandoned their radical beliefs.  Nawaz thought they had sold out, and tried to bring them back into the fold.  But in trying to re-convert them, his own views and beliefs were brought into doubt.  These assassins and former leaders showed Nawaz his views were not true Islam, but closer to fascism than anything else. 

After Nawaz left prison, he set up a think tank in London and has been traveling all over the world holding talks and workshops to counteract the Narrative, and, in essence, take back all the things he'd done when he was young.  

60 Minutes showed a clip of him standing at the head of a long rectangular table talking to people around my age about the West and railing against the Narrative.  He asked them if they knew how many Muslims lived in the US, if they knew how many mosques were in the US, if they knew the President's father was Muslim.  He argued that the US went into Iraq for the wrong reasons, but those reasons had little to do with religion and more to do with money and oil.  He acknowledged the US has killed civilians with drone attacks, but asked why suicide bombers, who've killed thousands of Muslims, are just given a free pass.  To me, he was very convincing.  To the attendees, I don't know.

I mention all this as a jumping off point for my bigger questions: Why haven't we done more to counteract the Narrative?  Why aren't we out there in the Muslim world, everyday, talking to them and railing against all the lies?  Why isn't their a specific counterintelligence program just for this? 

The reporter, Leslie Stahl, likened Nawaz's efforts to "tilting at windmills" or "blowing into the wind."  Instead of his window fan, why not give Nawaz some jet engines?  The way to stop Al Qaeda and the attacks is to cut off the flow of followers, to choke their supply of suicide bombers, to shine the light of truth on their veil of lies every day, every minute, every second we are still here. 

If a campaign of influence, an anti-Narrative initiative, isn't currently being implemented, why not start now, this very day?  I'm just a passionate progressive American, but even I can think of multiple ways to push the truth out their into the ether.  I'm sure there is someone else, with higher credentials than mine, that can do more and think of more ways to push back against the lies. 

I know we all live with the knowledge now that taking a plane ride or a train ride could be the last act we ever do.  When in the area, I frequently use the DC Metro system.  I haven't been scared to use it, even though I know it would be a perfect target for terrorism.  At rush hour, thousands of people cycle in and out, often hundreds per line of train cars. 

I'm not sacred to use Metro because I refuse to live a life of fear.  It's when you change your life, or refuse to do something out of fear, that the terrorists win.  But why not stop them before they convert college students looking to fit in, to find their place, to know who they are.  If people really knew our country, with its beauties and its flaws (and oh do we have many of them), maybe we all could be a little safer and a little less scared. 

Thursday, April 1, 2010

The Fat Note

I got my first fat note the other day.  For those of you who don't know what a fat note is, pull up a chair and learn.

A fat note is when someone, either anonymously or not, sends you a letter in the mail telling you about a new diet craze or a way another person was able to shed lots of pounds.  Yes, people actually do this.  I once witnessed my mother receive an anonymous fat note, with a newspaper article attached. 

I received my first fat note from, of all people, my father, about a week ago.  At the time, I just ignored it.  Okay, that's a lie.  I let the emotions seethed inside me until I finally let out some of my frustration to my SO (though thankfully not at him).  And my SO, at times the more practical and level headed in our relationship, told me to tell my father everything I was laying before him.

So what did I do....?  You guessed it, I ignored the fat note.  That is, until my father just called me.  Like just now.  His fat note concerned the latest craze in weight loss cure-all, the acacia berry diet. 

I have never been one to subscribe to diet trends.  I know why I'm the weight I am: 1) I do not live an active lifestyle (translation: I'm a lazy bitch who rarely exercises.) & 2) I do not practice portion control (translation: I often don't give a shit about what, or how much, I eat.). 

I know what I have to do to loose weight.  1) Live a more active lifestyle (translation: Get my ass of the couch and go for a walk, or do the yoga DVD that sits on top of my DVD player but gets ignored, or dance around the apartment til I'm a sweaty mess.) & 2) Maintain portion control (translation: Stop eating Burger King & Taco Bell & Mama Lucia for dinner (al)most every night.  Just because they are less than five minutes away and practically on your way home does NOT mean you should take them up on their offers.  You buy food; eat it more often.)

Of course, everything comes down to execution.  With my, at times, erratic schedule, I stop caring about what I eat if it gives me an hour extra sleep.  If I'm going on a gig that will last all day, sometimes I rely on the food places around the venue rather than pack my own meal.  And, unfortunately, my SO is not a good influence.  There have been times when I've eaten dinner, he's come home late, and on the way back calls me and asks what I want from BK or Taco Hell.  And I (al)most always cave in, asking for a small fry & small drink, or a small sandwich & drink, thinking the smaller portion is better.  What would really be better is if I just said no.  But self control is not my greatest strength.

I recently heard a scientific study proved junk/fast food is as addictive as any narcotic (heroine, cocaine, etc.).  I believe them.  Just the thought of fast food can linger in mind for days.  I've actually said to myself on a Monday, "You can have so&so fast food if you wait until Friday."  I did this, thinking I would forget about my craving.  But that didn't happen.  My ass remembered my thought and then indulged my craving.

This is most definitely not how I want to live my life.  I don't like how I look, don't like how I feel.  Shopping for clothes just doesn't happen, unless I need something for work, because I know the sizes won't fit.  Trying to find an outfit for my friends' wedding was an ordeal, a sad & frustrating ordeal.  And don't get me started about swim suits.

I want to make a change, but my father's good intentions do not help.  He wants me to come by and pick up the acacia berry juice he bought for me, tomorrow.  And I will go because I love him.  But there needs to be some recognition that there is no magical pill, or magical drink, that's going to help me loose 60 to 100 pounds.  Only I can do it.  It's just hard to do.

Friday, March 26, 2010

In Other News

So, anybody read the paper or watched the news lately?  Because if you haven't, you've been missing out on "Armageddon" and "Waterloo" NOT occurring.  What did happen was the President saw the center piece of his political agenda get passed, and people scared to death by the Republican Party started acting crazy. 

A few 'for instances':
1) Rep. Barney Frank being called a faggot,
2) multiple African American Representatives, including one who sturggled through the Civil Rights movement, being called niggers,
3) bricks thrown through offices of Representatives, &
4) Representatives and their families threatened with violence and death, including the posting of actual addresses (though not all of them accurate) and a protest planned at one Representative's house (his actual home state residence, where his wife and kids live).

Yes, America, this is the country we live in.  The President signed a piece of legislation that covers 30 million more Americans, providing health insurance to people like me who would have difficulty getting it otherwise, and people are acting crazy.  "Death Panels" and "pulling the plug on Grandma" are coming home to roost.

I actually didn't want to spend this post on the passing of the bill, momentous as it is, because so many people are talking about it already.  But, when such violent acts occurr and it seems no one on the Right is actually, sincerely, trying to stop it, I get angry. 

People were called unAmerican when they opposed the Iraq War, but you didn't see us throw bricks through windows or threaten death to House members.  And yet the Right has the nerve to compare Tea Party protesters swarming the Captiol steps, spitting on a Representative and yelling out hateful epithets, to the war protests on the Left.  How naive can you be?

Here is the biggest difference between the Left's protests then and the Right's protests now: Americans died in Iraq because of Bush Administration lies & people were tortured and died due to their deceits, while people would die every day due to Obama Administration inaction on healthcare.  And yet, the Right implicitly condones the actions of its outlayers.  It all just makes me sick. 

After what I've seen of the Republican party this past 15 months, I don't understand how anyone can morally live with themselves and be on the Right.  The Left has worked to stimulate the economy, tried to allow gays to openly serve in the military, signed S-CHIP into law, passed a Fair Pay Act, and genuinely worked to make this country better.  The Right has opposed them at every turn.  The party of No thinks the efforts the Left put forth are too over-reaching, believes the actions go too far, sees the problems of this country as too big to fix with just legislation.  Republicans, if you didn't think you could do the job, why did you bother getting elected?  Government is for the big boys, not the babies.  Go ahead and keep crying in the corner.  Let the adults do the real work of running the country.

I was proud of my President Sunday; I was proud of the Congress and especially Nancy Pelosi for getting the bill passed.  No, I was not happy about the Executive Order, nor was I pleased there wasn't a Public Option or a Medicare Buy-In (my preferred choice, considering I'm currently paying through COBRA about the same amount it would cost me).  But, and this is a huge but, our lives are so much better today than they were last week.  When I have a child(ren?), I will be able to tell them about how, in the past, Mommy was without insurance and she had to pay $1700 to fix one tooth.  Or how Daddy owed a hospital $10,000 because he had an appendicitis.  And I will be able to say how happy I am my child(ren?) will never have to face those difficulities. 

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Politics & Prom Part II

The ACLU is suing the Mississippi school board to reinstate the prom, saying now that the dance was taken away from the entire school, they must fight for the rights of all the students to have their senior prom.

LINK: ACLU files suit against Mississippi school for canceling prom

This case has stuck with me since I first read it. I couldn't help but think back on my experiences in high school, the injustice I witnessed first hand, and the continuing grief I have for not doing anything about it.

I went to an all girls Catholic School. During my senior year, a set of twins were our class President & VP. They were awesome people, liked by most in the class. But they had a problem: their parents didn't finishing paying for their tuition for the year.

I remember getting fitted for my graduation dress, all of us in a line waiting our turn, and overhearing the conversation of one of the twins about the situation. The faculty had threatened to not allow her & her sister into prom unless their tuition was paid in full by the day of the event. I couldn't understand this logic. The twins paid for their prom experience themselves: tickets, dresses, hair, limo. They wanted to have fun with their friends. Why were they being punished for the faults of their parents?

My senior prom was pretty fun. I looked smoking hot (I'd been participating in a local exercise campaign our new gym teacher had sponsored). I laughed and spent time with my friends. I danced and took pictures of everyone (including the teacher I had a crush on). It was a great night.

But, when I went to use the restroom, I happened to have a clear view of the front sign in table, a mere fifty feet away. The twins had arrived: beautiful, dates on their arms, wanting to go join their friends in the fun. Our principle, not the nicest of people (as most principles tend to be), physically stood in their way, keeping them from entering the ballroom.

And I just stood there, speechless. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I couldn't believe it was happening. We went to a Catholic School, which supposedly preached the love of God and the compassion of Jesus. Yet, over a petty money dispute, what could have been one of the best nights of their lives was taken away from two wonderful girls.

To this day, I regret not doing something, not standing up for them in their time of need. If only trying to distract the principle, or trying to convince her to let them in. Why didn't we band together as a class and try to pay their balance? Why didn't we demand they be let in? Why didn't we do something?

The simplest and easiest answer I have is we were stupid teenagers who didn't know better. But part of me doesn't believe that. Part of me knows it's because, when you're that age, you're selfish. Only your life matters. No one wants to hear about the sorrows of others. (I didn't tell my friends about all my family members who died when I was in school. I figured no one wanted to hear it.)

The twins didn't come to either of the graduation ceremonies (we had two). I haven't seen them or spoken to them about the incident.

I just don't understand how schools can be like this: concerned with their own selfish interests and not looking out for their students, all of their students.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Politics & Prom

I just finished reading an article on USAToday about an 18 year old Mississippi lesbian who, after being denied the right to bring her girlfriend to prom, contacted her ACLU chapter for help, only for the school board to find the pussy/asshole way around the situation: they canceled the prom for the school and suggested people set up a "private prom".

LINK: Mississippi prom canceled after lesbian's date request

There are so many things about this ordeal that infuriates me. So, I'm making a list.

1) Why is it so bad if this girl brings her date to prom? Why do people even care? I get that it's the south & hatred and bigotry live on, but really? We have to take a stand over the prom? Do they really think their society will be up ended and catastrophically changed just because a lesbian wants to share a night of fun with her girlfriend? She's a senior and is probably leaving to go off to college, or somewhere else a little more inviting, in less than two months. Can't they just let this slide?

2) What if she just wanted to bring her friend from another school? Would the policy still count? I know when I was a teenager, the only two dates I ever brought to dances were friends. There was no romantic involvement whatsoever. So what if? Would their bigoted policy still take effect? If not, I smell lawsuit. If yes, I'm angered even more.

3) I HATE that the school had the balls to basically tell the parents and students, "Have your own party, cause then you can admit or deny whoever you want. Keep discrimination alive!" It infuriates me to no end when people promote hatred/discrimination/phobia of 'the other' and pass it off as 'a choice.' Sure, it's a choice for you to be assholes, but that doesn't mean you should be. I hope someone organizes a prom and then invites the lesbian and her girlfriend to come, just to stick it to the school.

& 4) The dumbest part of the story, just for its shear misogyny: A dress? Really? The girl was being denied access to the dance not just because she wanted to bring her girlfriend, but also because she wanted to wear a tuxedo. Can someone explain to me why this is important, AT ALL?!? The way I see it, if she buys the ticket, that girl should able to roll up in a tank top, shorts, and flip flops. How can attire matter in any way, shape or form, as long as no one is naked?

It's story like this that get me fired up about our country. How are we suppose to be 'the land of the free and the home of the brave' or 'have equal protection under the law' when homophobia and misogyny are somehow ingrained in society?

This is not what I believe in. This is not the America I want to live in.

Friday, March 5, 2010

Metro Moment

Today I witnessed my first crime in progress. Actually witnessed might be too strong a term. I saw the direct aftermath of someone's really bad day.

I sat on the Red Line around 1pm, reading a submission for Writers' Group, when I heard a young woman a few rows behind me yell, "Hey!" The warning chime had just sounded and a guy ran out the door. The woman tried to follow, but the thief had timed it perfectly. The doors closed behind him, blocking her from chasing. "He stole my iPhone!" she yelled, unable to do much else.

I never saw his face. I only know it was a him from her statement. I don't even know what race he was. I felt bad for her. I couldn't go back to reading the submission.

The woman ended up at the end of our car, trying to watch him as he ran off. A rather attractive gentleman, who was sitting by the pass through door, stood up and pushed the emergency button. He made a phone call and subsequently exited with the girl at the next stop. It wasn't until they left that I saw he had a radio clipped to his belt. He was replaced by a Metro Cop in uniform.

After they were gone, a pair of friends across the aisle starting talking. One mentioned how she saw it coming, how she'd seen him spying her things. She started chuckling, which made me mad. I went back to ignoring my surroundings, but kept my arm through my backpack's strap.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Letter To My Senator

Recently a letter has been floating around the Senate. It's a pledge to pass the Public Option through budget reconciliation, a Parliamentary maneuver and way to bypass filibusters. It is the way CHIP (The Children's Health Insurance Program) & COBRA (what I now have) were passed, along with FIVE Bush era tax cuts and multiple amendments to Medicare & Medicaid.

After doing some research on the internet, I found out one of the two Senators in my state had not yet signed the pledge. I called his office asking why. The nice lady on the phone said she had no information as to why he had not signed, but assured me my Senator supported the Public Option.

I, in turn, sent him a letter (email through his contact page). It reads as follows:


Recently I heard 22 Senators have signed a letter pledging to pass the public option through budget reconciliation, including your Senate counterpart. I'm contacting you to ask why you have not signed as well.

Republicans in the Senate have worked to block almost all legislation and reform, including the public option. I, as one who would seek to use this new government program, want your support to bypass a Republican filibuster and pass the public option by reconciliation.

I know your job is far from easy. I know you have pressures I could not imagine. But Sir, I, along with many others in your state, need the public option.

I've applied for heath insurance multiple times through the individual market and have been rejected due to my weight. Currently I work multiple part time jobs, making me ineligible for group coverage. I had group coverage at an old job, but in December of 2008 I accepted a new position with the promise of health insurance benefits. They never came. Recently, I was let go from the new position. I still pay my high COBRA premium, $435 a month, but that leaves me with less money for all my other bills.

The public option is the best way for me to seek insurance coverage I know will not be taken away, nor include premiums that can be raised to obscene amounts. My COBRA coverage runs out at the end of May. I will then apply for the statewide high risk pool, known as MHIP, as a last effort to keep insurance coverage. No one should ever have to worry about loosing health insurance. The public option would make this so.

Sir, the public option is for people like me, not in perfect health, but still wanting health insurance in case the worst happens.

Sir, please support us, and sign the letter pledging to use reconciliation for the public option.

Lets see if/how my Senator responds.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

The Bill Bomb

The Rachel Maddow Show, in order to raise awareness, interest, and passion for the legislative process, is currently running an online contest, asking viewers to re-brand the filibuster, because, as she notes, it's just so boring.

Here is my entry, along with a link so you can vote for it, or any other suggestions you like, or even add your own idea.

If I/you win, I/you get a TRMS sweatshirt and a mug!

The Bill Bomb

Because like the Shoe Bomber & Underwear Bomber, it seeks to terrorize the masses, blowing up the good works Congressmen have tried to fulfill, leading normally rational, intelligent, sane people to do irrational, idiotic, insane things.

For example, "Sen. Lieberman has chosen to join in the bill bombing with Republicans, even though Democrats were willing to give up the corner stone of their health reform, the public option."

Or, "Republicans are threatening the bill bomb, sending many Democrats into crisis mode, trying to figure out what they can give away in order to have their measure passed."

And finally, "The Bill Bomber this session is, no pun intended, Sen. Jeff Sessions, who decided it was best to emulate his hero, Sen. Strom Thurman, than to allow the Democrats' law to pass with a simple majority."

Monday, February 15, 2010

Don't Go See LEGION

My synopsis: It's porn for the religious right.
My SO's: Guns, religion, and the black people die.

I guess this is when I should throw in a spoiler alert warning, because I will talk about plot points and give away most, if not all, of the movie. Why? In hopes I can save at least one person from wasting their time and money on this disaster.

Don't get me wrong; it started off well enough. The opening monologue ended with a curse word and set you up well for the story. Michael falls, cuts off his wings, sews himself up, gets armed, and sets off on his mission. The beginning was spot on.

And the acting of the cast's heavy hitters (Paul Bettany as Michael, Dennis Quaid, and Charles S. Dutton) did give moments where I hoped I would walk out of the theatre happy. Dennis Quaid never takes himself too seriously, unless the material calls for it, and never so over the top I don't believe him. Charles S. Dutton is obviously the conscience and a religious center of the characters. But then again, being as he's an older black man, this was an easy and rather cliche way to fit him. Still he made it work well. Unfortunately, even this trio of men couldn't save this movie for me.

Most of the action takes place in and around a diner in the middle of the desert which Dennis Quaid owns. Charlie, the pregnant latter day Mary, is a waitress. Jeep, the new age Joseph, is Dennis Quaid's son and mechanic for the small auto shop in back. Charles S. Dutton is, what else, the cook. We see a pair of dog tags, indicating he was in the military, but no other information about this part of his past is revealed. Tyrese needs to find a phone. Kate Walsh, Jon Tenney, and Willa Holland are a family stuck because their BMW breaks down. So you have these people in this one place with quite a shock to come.

I can tell you the exact point when the movie turned for me: when Charlie talks about going to the abortion clinic. There are so many ways they could have played this, and I must say the monologue probably lacked because the writers where both men. But it also lacked because, I believe, they wrote this movie to fulfill an agenda and forgot they also needed to entertain, and not piss off, the audience. Charlie describes to Jeep how she felt sitting in the waiting room: like falling into an abyss, like she was dying, how it seemed like it was certain this baby had to be born, like she didn't have a choice.

It was that last line that put me over the edge. I get they wanted her to not care about the kid, as she then talks about hating the baby. I get they wanted her to be more of a Mary Magdalene than pure and innocent. But you don't use that term without knowing exactly how people are going to take it, especially if you are the type of person who believes there shouldn't be a choice. I was pissed; some deaths soon after eased my anger a little, but if I were in a crappier mood I might have walked out.

Another thing I could not abide, much like in other movies, was the inconsistencies. Micheal specifically cites God's frustration over man warring over bits of rock and killing each other as the reason for his loss of love for his creation. Yet, it takes Micheal "killing" all these people possessed by angels to save the hope of man.

Also, at the end of the movie, the happy couple with their baby, because of course they are the only ones we meet, save Micheal and Gabriel, to survive, drive off in fresh clothes and a car. As the camera pans back, you see in the back of the vehicle a rather large cache of guns. Hello! Isn't that a repeat of the problem: violence gets God mad. If anything, the movie should have ended with them farming a small plot of land, smiling and waving to their neighbors, or Jeep seeking out the "prophets" while Charlie is safe and protected.

Speaking of the prophets: way to just throw something out there, not explain it, and then think we are just gonna go with it. Charlie and Jeep are suppose to go to find some guys, presumably, and learn to "follow the signs". I get how they may have thought this was okay to toss in because they hint about Jeep's dreams. However, this piece of info is yelled to Jeep by Michael as he prepares to fight Gabriel. Literally it's two lines in the middle of lots of action, with little to no follow up on it. And Jeep, though he is suppose to be having dreams, doesn't even recognize Michael, when we are suppose to believe he saw Michael's fall to earth in a dream. Talk about suspension of disbelief. It's nice that Jeep gets Michael's tattoos but the lack of any further explanation was just plain laziness on the part of the writers.

Okay, I will say I liked the small twist in the end, when Micheal descends from heaven to save Jeep from Gabriel killing him and the child. Gabriel had previously killed Michael the man. He was now Michael the angel again. I totally got that; Michael showed mercy where Gabriel did not and that is what God needed: someone to believe and hope when he could not. This plot twist, though a little cheesy, I can go with.

What I didn't get was why Michael slashed Gabriel in the mid section with his heavenly sword, he bled, but did not die. Gabriel asked Michael to kill him, Michael refuses, and Gabriel says he would not be so merciful. And this is when we get the line from Michael about why God choose to restore him: because he showed mercy.

But then Gabriel just flies off. Why not make him a human? That seemed like the obvious point to be made in the moment: Gabriel must learn mercy and regain God's love. Instead it's just, "Hey, you didn't kill the baby yet, so just leave." Um, yeah, are we to believe he would just go home and relax, now that God saved Jeep and the others. Is he still gonna wanna kill the kid? Come on people, some type of explanation would be helpful here.

Now I, being a black woman, must talk about how I was pissed that both the black folks died. Charles S. Dutton and Tyrese have this nice heart-to-heart on the roof of the diner and in my mind I know one of them will die. I can see it coming; older black man passes on wisdom to the younger and either the older one will sacrifice his life for the younger or vice versa. Wouldn't you know it, both of them die trying to save a white person. Yes, I was pissed about that. Wouldn't you be? It is so cliche, so out of nowhere, so annoying.

I think this is also when I should voice my anger at the fact that both the Mary and Joseph were white. Come on! You couldn't have made one of them African American, Latino, or Asian. For that matter, the cast couldn't feature anyone who was Latino, Asian, or at least Native American? Just because you have two blacks guys in it doesn't make it realistic. Laziness, yet again.

What to talk about next? Well, there is part where a young kid goes at Charlie with a knife and I instantly got a flashback of Chuckie. Or there is the part where flies completely surround a car, causing them to turn back for the diner, but then no other plague is used in the movie. Or there is the part where the group gets a radio message saying militias have formed and are holding off the invaders and everyone wants to run to join them. Yup, you got that right. The movie advocated militias. In fact, that is where Jeep and Charlie run to in hopes of protection at the end of the movie, and we are to assume that's where they got their new clothes and car.

After all this angst, I feel I should mention there were some good parts to this movie. The first possessed person was an old lady with a fowl mouth that took everyone by surprise. Michael & Gabriel have a somewhat interesting back and forth on the merits of following God's decree. And the daughter of the stranded family was slightly less than one dimensional: she deals with her mother's breakdown after her father dies on an upside down cross, tries to save Tyrese, helps to deliver the baby, and sacrifices herself so Jeep and Charlie can get away from Gabriel.

Oh my God, delivering the baby! Okay, this must have been the fastest contractions to push time frame ever. Charlie goes into the labor and seemingly delivers the baby in like five minutes. Horns are blasting and you know something is coming, so Michael gets her to push when she shouldn't and the baby is delivered. Then, of all things, she is able to walk AND climb a mountain. This movie was written by men who obviously didn't bother to do any research beyond jacking off to the Bible.

Oh, and the sudden freezing of the possessed folks was yet again weird. Gabriel busts in and starts barreling through the diner, so Michael gets Jeep, Charlie, and the daughter to run out the back. When they do, everyone outside is just frozen. Jeep leads with a gun, but they basically form a line to the police car Michael drove in to the diner. As the group gets to the car, there is this kid with a bag on his head, swinging a stick that he hits on the hood. No, I have NO IDEA what this was for. None what so ever.

When I see a movie like this, I get offended. Not just because of the obvious proselytizing, but because of the lack of quality. Plot points were thrown out willy nilly. There were obvious contradictions from message to action. And certain things just were not possible, I don't care how much I'm suppose to suspend my disbelief. It is movies like this that piss me off, but also tell me my goals are quite attainable. Because if a piece of crap movie like this can get made, I know my ideas are solid gold shit.

There were so many things I could have spent the past hour writing about: the controversial SCOTUS decision, the State of the Union, Evan Bayh. But no, Legion pissed me off that much.

Take my advice: SAVE YOUR MONEY!

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Resist The Urge To Turn Pussy

Congressional Democrats, the shit we all saw coming has finally arrived. Scott Brown won the special election in Massachusetts today and will soon be the new junior Senator, thereby extinguishing your paper thin filibuster proof majority.

Now, I know there are some of you who will see this as a reason to stop pushing for reform. You believe this election was a referendum on all you've tried to do this past year. Do me a favor: Resist The Urge To Turn Pussy.

Martha Coakley lost the election because she ran a piss poor campaign. She believed the primary was her battle, and has since sat back, barely acknowledging her opponent. So, when Scott Brown did surge, because people are pissed now and he espoused fake populism, Coakley's campaign was not prepared to react. And besides, no way was a Republican going to win Teddy Kennedy's seat. Guess what, lazy Democrats up there in Massachusetts, it just happened.

I say all this as 1) a lesson to anyone running for office; never take your constituency for granted.

And 2) This was not a referendum on health reform. Let me repeat that: THIS WAS NOT A REFERENDUM ON HEALTH REFORM. This was the case of a lazy chick thinking she had already been crowned the new Senator from Massachusetts just because she's a Democrat.

So, to the main point of tonight's ranting: Resist The Urge To Turn Pussy. This is not the time to back down. For the past months, you've tried to bring in your veto proof majority, only to almost run out of time. You've acquiesced, you've brokered deals, you've sucked out most of the life in the health reform package. So, now that you have an excuse to kick your asses into gear, I propose two courses of action.

1) The sensible, and, might I add, kind of close to pussy thing to do, would be for the House to just pass the Senate bill. If the Progressives choke down the piece of shit, which has no public option and its means of payment kind of screws the pooch, the matter is done. If I were in office, and in a desperate mood, this would probably be the path I would take. Wham, bam, thank you Ma'am; we have health reform.

Now, seeing as I'm not desperate, and in fact am in a full throttle, balls to wall kind of mindset, I would choose the second option:
2) Like I said last night, Fuck 'Em. Time for budget reconciliation baby. Little Bush used it to push his tax cuts for the wealthy. It's about time the Democrats used it for something more, what's the word...moral, humane, ethically justified, greatly needed in a country where as many as 45 million people lack basic coverage, 1 million go bankrupt every year from health related bills, and 45,000 people a year DIE because they lack health insurance.

Yeah, that's what I would do. But then again, I'm not an elected official. But I am a person who votes. Keep that in mind.

As I've shared on this blog, I was recently laid off. And of course it was a shock. However, looking back on it now, I could've seen it coming. There were signs the company was not in the best shape and, as the saying goes, "Last hired, first fired." So, I get it.

I mention this incidence in my life because I see a parallel to Congressional Democrats' situation now. Because you weren't paying attention, because you took the Massachusetts Senate seat for granted, you lost it.

I also say this because Congressional Democrats have the opportunity to do what I did: take this as a kick in the ass and start doing what you should've been doing in the first place. Push your agenda forward. Work more, harder. Make health reform a reality, with or without sixty votes. You have the ability to do it. Now it only takes the testicular fortitude.

Congressional Democrats: Resist The Urge to Turn Pussy & finish what we elected you to do.

Man Up Or Shut Up

I am so sick and tired of people putting all this importance and pressure on the Massachusetts Senate race. Face it DNC: you fucked up. You chose the wrong candidate for the position, didn't realize her level of unawares about the most basic of Boston knowledge (namely that Kurt Schilling is NOT a Yankee fan), discovered her inability to run well most inopportunely (famously her snarky comment about not wanting to stand outside a ballpark and shake people's hands), and you waited until too late to bring in the President for aid. YOU FUCKED UP.

Lets be honest: Massachusetts doesn't give a flying fuck about national health reform. They have a better system than the one on the table in Washington, so if it passes or fails, it won't matter in the least to them. And, frankly, tell me a way Brown has fucked up in this campaign, past centerfolds aside.

DNC: Ya'll screwed the pooch royally with this one and a Democratic seat for over thirty years is about to turn red. If Teddy isn't rolling over in his grave, he's probably banging on the casket door so he can get out and whoop some ass.

But, beyond this little kerfuffle, one Senator shouldn't matter. In case we all have "New President Amnesia", our past Commander-in-Chief was able to push through legislation without the super-majorities the Democrats now have.

So what, you're about to loose one Senate seat. Grow a set of balls and make the shit work. Force the Republicans to filibuster. Dare them to, in fact. Footage of any of them on the floor of Congress, blocking sweeping change that would aid 30 million American, is just what ya'll will need for 1) public outrage to force them to stop &/or 2) re-election ads for the upcoming mid-terms.

Republicans are currently the party of no, but when did the Democrats become the party of bend over? Your counterparts have screwed you basically from jump this legislative session. They were united against the stimulus in the House. Only one member, Joseph Cao of Louisiana, voted for the House's health bill. In the Senate, not one voted for the Health overhaul and only Olympia Snow, Susan Collins, and, now Democrat, Arlen Specter voted for the stimulus. They're blocking nominations just cause they want to, and no one seems to have the guts to knock a few heads and twist a few arms.

Why has no one pulled the Chairmanship card with Lieberman? It's this simple: We don't care how you vote in the final ballot, but you vote with us on procedures or we'll take your spot. DONE. One opportunistic man's vote secured. Seriously, we spent so much time on that fool, I wanted to throttle both him and the people that bothered to listen to his senile rantings.

Democratic party, members of the House & Senate, Mr. President: you just have to say FUCK 'EM. Push your agenda, make them work their games, and when the American people ask who killed health reform, show footage of their threatened filibuster. When a citizen asks why their child was dropped from their family plan, show them pictures of Rep. Boehner & Rep. Cantor, Sen. McConnell & Sen. Grassley, red in the face from reading David Copperfield all night. Tell them, "I pushed for reform, but these people just worked to screw you."

Care more about the people you represent than trying to get reelected, and, for once, tell the people the God's honest truth: Republicans don't give a flying fuck about Americans. They just do what their donors tell them.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

The Difference Between Sex & Love

My yesterday was pretty amazing; I spent it with a budding friend, in her extremely cool house, chatting with her hot roommate. But the after math of an emotional break through I had has given me a headache all day. So maybe if I write about it, the headache will go away.

One of my friends is in an open relationship. I understood what the situation meant to this person and their SO, but I could never understand it for myself. I have always linked sex to emotions, unfortunately imposing tons of heart ache on myself. I didn't loose my virginity until I was 22, and to a person who didn't deserve it, but in my mind we were in love. Once he was gone, I used sex as a weapon against him. I had rebound flings with two different men, never actually enjoying either encounter.

Now I'm in a stable, long term relationship with a sweet man. And, after three years, I think we are in a good place.

But lately something has been bugging me. I had a few incredibly honest conversations with a coworker some time ago. But, it wasn't until a few days ago, that I wondered if we had been flirting. This bugged me enough to get me to ask said coworker as much. This person did not believe we were flirting, just brutally honest about the topics, which were sexual. And, as my blossoming friend pointed out, lots of conversations end up around sex.

However, even with the flirtation a non-issue, the crux of my breakthrough still remained. I am highly attracted to my coworker, but have no romantic feelings towards him at all. This was the first time, to my knowledge, I have completely stripped emotions out of sex. Having held this as a belief, and then having it disproved by a life experience, has sent my head spinning.

Also, it left me with a question: should I approach my SO with this breakthrough? The short answer is yes. I should talk to my SO about it. My psychologist encourages me to talk with my SO about any and everything. She feels I should never inhibit my thoughts, especially since I have the tendency to let them eat away at me until they burst out, usually causing damage and a round of apologies on my part.

But now that I know I won't be having sex with my coworker, is it really worth it to ask my SO about sleeping with other people? We have brokered the subject when it came to other women. My SO knows I'm bisexual and indeed has encouraged me in the pursuit of female affection. But, even with this admission, I feel bringing up the subject of other men is precarious. The last thing I want to do is to emasculate him, or make him feel like he isn't good enough. That is not what I'm saying, at all.

Instead, it is a curiosity that's sparked in me. I want to know what it feels like to sleep with other men. I've had four male sexual partners and one female. He's had more, much more. And there is a part of me that wants to see what so many other bodies feel like, against mine, in mine.

Of course, there is the likelihood this urge will go away. In fact, I know it has only been sparked because of my latest writing, an erotic novel with a strong female lead. I've projected on to her the abilities and prowess I don't feel in myself. She is my surrogate, living the life I know I never will.

And there is the simple fact that I am not a pursuer. The people I have had encounters with, including those that did not end up in sex but were sensual and fulfilling all the same, have never been my prey. They were always the predator. I happened to be in their cross-hairs, ready to be caught. So how am I, assuming I am given blessing by my SO, to pursue my wilds when I lack the self esteem to believe I am attractive enough or the confidence to hunt for my conquests?

So that's where my head is. And, having taken the time to type out my thoughts, I now feel better. But questions, and the quandary, still remain.
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